Timothy Evans-Barnes is three and lives with his fathers in an apartment above their bar and grill, The Pickled Pepper. His grandfather, Miss Jason, runs The Rendezvous, the most successful gay brothel and restaurant in the state. His great-grandfather
PECK OF PICKLED PEPPERS
By I.E. WoodwardiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 I. E. Woodward
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-2702-3Chapter One
Miss Jason adjusted the black vintage-inspired cotton and wool Yves St. Laurent jumpsuit so the plunging neckline revealed his carefully crafted artificial cleavage, stretched his six foot frame to accentuate his long legs against the new white leather of his office chair, crossed his ankles to reveal his matching six-inch wood wedge two piece sandals, glanced quickly in the office mirror to make certain his Henry Margu wig in the
Victoria style was in place, and enunciated carefully into his black porcelain Viscount reproduction telephone, "Michael, darling, whatever gave you the idea that
le bel enfant, Timothy, learned to say that awful word from me? Hmm?"
"Because, Jason, he said you taught it to him."
"Well, don't let's forget, Mikey, dear, little Timmy may be the brightest child of three I have ever known, but you are aware he was conceived in a whore house by parents who were employed there."
"Your daughter and I were engaged in the same trade as his grandfather, Jason, and that's you!"
"That attitude has a certain je ne c'est quoi, Michael. Desperation?"
"Let me get this straight. Are you saying, my three year old son says `fuck' because of genetics?"
There was an incredibly long Geraldine Page pause during which Miss Jason inhaled deeply from a Pizzazz filtered Dunhill cigarette. "Well, the apple never falls very far from the bush."
"Apples grow on trees."
"Whatever."
"Okay. In the meantime, Logan and I have decided Timmy won't be spending any more Saturday's with his grandfather until we get his vocabulary cleaned up."
"You're a bigger son-of-a-bitch than my father!"
"Apples, Jason," and the line went dead.
The three year old held the back of the booth and the sill and stretched up on his tiptoes to peer out the window. It was a new trick he'd learned since his fathers allowed him to come downstairs for supper on nights the bar wasn't busy, and he absolutely loved the sight of cars buzzing along Piper Avenue as he peaked through the pane. What he loved even more were the stray cats that passed by on the sidewalk below. He would lift himself like a premier danseur at the bar to see one dart up the avenue and into the dark alley. "I can have a kitty, daddy. Tell Damaw I can." He turned his angelic smile to his daddy Michael and, in the glow from the Budweiser lamp hanging down over the booth, there was no denying his paternity.
CLIPPING FROM DANA TURNKEY'S COLUMN CAPITOL DINING: Despite the rather lurid rumors which continually circulate about the flamboyant Miss Jason one has to say the food at The Rendezvous is as good as it gets. Chef Antoine LaFortune's Grilled Double Cut Pork Chop with Jack Gritts and a White Wine and Dijon Mustard Reduction may be the single best dish on the west side. Don't miss his spectacular potatoes whipped with creamed cheese, on- ions, garlic, white pepper and the perfect amounts of butter and cream. It's five stars all the way. [And rumor has it the gorgeous waiters are all on the menu, too!]
For a time, when that horrible set of circumstances involving the babe's deceased mother, his grandfather, Miss Jason, Jason's infamous, now celebrated, restaurant and brothel, The Rendezvous, and almost everyone Michael knew in the state's capital city, there was some question about who Timothy's father was. Now, when you saw the two together, you didn't need the DNA test results. One was the other's miniature: alabaster skin, sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a crown of natural blond silk.
Timothy jumped from the booth and circled the empty bar at a full gallop. Mike opened the novel he'd been trying to read for his British Lit class and let him play. It was not quite seven and what few customers they'd had during the usual dinner service had disappeared. Spring Break was not the time to be in business in a university town. He and Logan had put every penny they'd been able to save in their two years together into a down payment and moved half way across the state to go to college, start a business, and, as Antoine said, "Put things behind'em."
Mike looked up to see his pocket-sized double press his face against a glass pane at the corner entrance and blow clouds of mist onto the cool surface. One at a time Timmy moved from pane to pane of the gridded panels of the doorway, which sat at an angle to the intersection of Peters Street and Piper Avenue. As Antoine said, "Ya' gotta smile, kid. Is `ay a better place for a pub call'dah Pickled Pepper?" Antoine was Jason's husband and the one person that Mike and Logan depended on for sound advice and fatherly comfort. He'd been right about The Pickled Pepper, within six months they were the most popular hangout for the arts crowd.
They'd cleaned and oiled the old oak paneling and bar, waxed the floor till you could skate on it, put new dark maroon vinyl on anything with a seat, polished the brass, and talked half a dozen breweries out of ceiling fixtures and clocks and even a lighted chalk board for their biggest addition, the menu which hung over the bar. A couple of days, thanks to Logan's skills in their tiny backroom kitchen, they'd already done a thousand dollars in sandwiches alone, and, if they added take- out, that could double.
"Kitty, daddy!" Timmy shouted, and slapped the glass, "go to alley, kitty. Get the rats!"
"Don't leave hand prints on the glass, Tim," Mike looked up from his book, "Papa will kill us both."
"Papa will do what?" Logan pushed a high chair out of the kitchen. He had a tray balanced across the arms of the chair and their supper balanced on the tray. He pushed the chair up to the booth and began to unload it. "I made chicken noodle for tomorrow. The weather said it was going to be rainy." He put a large bowl in front of Michael.
Sliding to the edge of the seat, Mikey called, "Timmy, come on, let's wash our hands." Timmy whooped and dashed to the kitchen, hitting the swinging doors with both hands. As he disappeared he shouted, "Look in alley, daddy, see the fuckin' rats!"
Logan caught Mike's glance, "Did you call Jason?"
"Like talking to Glen Beck; he blamed it on genetics."
"I'll call Antoine." He put the rest of the plates and bowls on the table. He had made a slider version of their veggie burger for Tim and a large one with a plate of pickled haricot vert to share with Mike. Somehow supper for the two of them had evolved into two forks and one plate; nothing that needed discussing got beyond it. He put a single wedge of sweet potato pie at the far end of the table. Timmy would get his share when all the noodles were gone. He heard something from the kitchen about stop using that word and Damaw says okay and then the doors swung open and Logan hoisted a red-faced little boy into his high chair and kissed an exasperated big boy as he slid into the booth before him. He handed a spoon to Timmy and supper began.
When Logan turned the light off in the kitchen it was nearly eight and Timmy had curled up in the booth with his head in his father's lap. Mike had returned to his novel and, as yet, no customers had called. "The kitchen's put away. Everything's ready for tomorrow." He tossed his apron into the hamper by the staircase and put a small clipboard on the bar. Logan stretched. Still 6'2", he hadn't grown taller since they left The Rendezvous; he was just more confident and seemed taller. He still had the shock of black Superman hair that hung in a curl over his forehead and the same broad...
